“Moorman, whom you know, admitted that to me, not knowing who I was. I got it out of him when he thought I was merely a client taking an outside interest in the case. He didn’t realise that it was of importance.” “And that was your proof?” asked Joan, with an air of disappointment. “Dear me, Miss Cowper, I should be very sorry to try to hang a man on such evidence. That was only a beginning. What puzzled me was that, whereas the weapon with which Mr. George Brooklyn was killed was found on the scene of the murder, there was no sign of any weapon which could have killed Mr. Prinsep. So I made a thorough fresh search, and at last, on the roof of the building which projects over towards the coach-yard, I found the weapon, where the murderer had thrown it out of sight. It was a bag filled with small-shot.” “But I don’t see how you could prove whose it was.” “One moment, Mr. Ellery. I took that bag away, and went carefully through its contents. Among them I found two tiny scraps of paper, obviously part of an order, or a memorandum of an order, for garden bulbs. When I went to the desk there just now, it was to confirm my view that the writing was Carter Woodman’s. I was right.” “So that proved it?” said Joan. “I would not go so far as to say that,” said Superintendent Wilson. “But it made a case, with certain other points which you probably know as well as I—Woodman’s financial difficulties, and so on. I had not, however, finished my case. In fact, when I came here, I was pursuing my investigations. Your presence and that of the inspector were quite unexpected. Indeed, I may say that you interrupted me.” “Sorry and all that,” said Ellery. “But, you see, we had finished our case, and proved Carter Woodman’s guilt so that he knew the game was up. Hence the end of the story as you saw it just now.” “I suggest, Mr. Ellery—and Miss Cowper—that, in view of what we both know, the only possible course is to pool our information. I have told you my evidence. Will you be good enough now to tell me yours?” Joan and Ellery looked at each other, and Joan nodded. They both realised that it was inevitable that they should tell Superintendent Wilson all they knew. “You tell him, Bob. I’m not up to it,” said Joan, smiling faintly. “But, superintendent, you realise, don’t you, how anxious we have been that this horrible story should not come to light. It has caused misery enough already: the telling of it will only cause more.” “I understand,” said the superintendent. “Then can’t we still keep it to ourselves?” said Joan, with a note of hope in her voice. The superintendent shook his head. “I suppose you realise,” he said, “that you have both committed a very serious offence. But I won’t be too hard on you—especially as you have shown yourselves such creditable amateurs in my line of business,” he added with a smile. “But I am afraid the whole story must come out now. There is really no question about that.”